


The Finest Emotion

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Collars, Imprisonment, Kidnapping, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 12:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16326281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: “Look, Agent Carolina killed my- an orange soldier. We never got even. I’m not a fan of loose ends. So… An eye for a tooth. She took something from me, I have to take something from her. It’s symbolic in that way. I guess.”





	The Finest Emotion

**Author's Note:**

> _”Terror, when you come home and notice everything you own had been taken away and replaced by an exact substitute.” ___  
>  _““I recognize terror as the finest emotion.” _  
> – Stephen King__

He has it all scheduled, of course, down to every minute. And so he knows that Grif should be unconscious by now, taken down by the drug injected into the chocolate bar that Temple had been sure to leave in his room the day before.

Feeling safe and secure in his borrowed armor, he opens the door with the spare key and slips inside. He’s expected Grif to be sprawled across the bed, maybe in the chair, but it surprises him to see the Hawaiian upright, leaning heavily against the wall as he stumbles his way to his night table.

Temple spots the communicator on the surface.

Grif looks over his shoulder and his clouded eyes widen at the sight of the intruder. His mouth falls open but no intelligible words leave it, and he lunges for the communicator but his reflexes are dulled by the drug.

Temple gets to him first, pulling his ankle so that Grif slams against the floor, groaning at the impact. Despite the drug in the system, Grif still puts up a fight, kicking out while trying to push himself up. But it’s not difficult for Temple to get the upper hand, placing himself on Grif’s back, pressing down with his knee as he feels Grif’s hot skin beneath his palms through the fabric of his shirt.

Grif whines with a desperate exhale, arms trying to reach his attacker but unable to even touch him. Temple leans further against him to keep him in place as he goes for plan b – a bottle and rag ready for this situation. Grif continues to kick against the floor, the body jerking beneath Temple’s weight but it’s not enough to cause any attraction – the walls are too thick, and the communicator is out of reach. He buries his fingers into Grif’s black hair to lift his head.

“What the-?” he hisses, voice slurred, and that’s all he’s allowed to say before the rag is pressed against his mouth and nostrils, and his face is slammed against the floor to keep it in place. Temple’s hand stays tangled into the hair while he makes sure that Grif can’t move away from the fumes.

The looming threat only seems to increase the struggling and Grif’s palms slam against the floor with loud smacks, his feet scrambling against the tiles, but Temple doesn’t let him move. Instead he digs his knee deeper into the spot between his shoulder blades, forcing the air from Grif’s lungs through his nostrils with a slow, unforgiving pace. He can hear Grif finally trying to breathe, and the small pathetic noise muffled by the rag is enough to make him smile. Grif’s fingers claw against the floor but as the fumes kick in, they turn still, body growing limp.

The hardest part is carrying the unconscious body into the crate. His cart has been waiting outside, just another repairman doing his job, and he moves it inside when no one is looking. Grif is heavy, as expected, and he grunts when he drags him towards the awaiting hiding place.

The legs are tucked close to his chest in order to fit in the crate. It isn’t ideal, but he didn’t quite have a trunk ready for him.

Temple locks the door with his spare key, carefully copied after the one he’d found in Grif’s shelf the night he’d snuck in through an unlocked door. They hadn’t expected him, and he can’t really blame them.

The best part is pushing the cart back to his apartment. It’s such a thrill, moving through crowds with no suspicion. And what is there to suspect? His new great armor has protected him for weeks, and no one bats an eye at his presence.

For a second he is sure he spots the familiar maroon armor. It makes him think of Gene and the others, still rotting in the cell. But this is Simmons, obviously, walking down the street, perhaps to knock on Grif’s door with no one answering, probably thinking that Grif is in a too deep sleep.

The thought makes him smile, and he considers waving at him, just for the adrenalin rush.

But then he turns his head, setting his jaw as he arms burn while he pushes the cart forward.

He’s been planning this for too long to risk it all for a confident move.

* * *

It’s the scent that throws him off first.

The bed groans beneath his weight, and he digs his fingers into the sheets. The fabric is soft but a bit stiff from the ironing, and a smell of violets enters his nostrils when he buries his face in the pillow.

His eyes open wide when the realization hit him.

Unless Simmons has snuck into his room and cleaned Grif’s bed while he’d been sleeping in it, there is no way this could be his usual nest of worn blankets, a dented mattress decorated with empty candy wrappers.

The colors are right, though. The blanket is brightly orange, because their traits have become an overused joke that follows them everywhere by now. God forbid Sarge suffering a heart attack because a single shade is off.

At first glance, he recognizes it as his own apartment. The bed table is where it should be, a lamp on the surface next to an unopened can of soda. With cherry taste, he realizes, his favorite.

Kimball had offered them whatever apartment they wished for, but he’d preferred a single room apartment, like he’d been used to. He didn’t need a bigger space, plus it meant less distance to the kitchen.

Even from his bed he was able to see his fridge. The room was so familiar.

But not quite.

He immediately noticed the missing _‘Aloha-Hoe’_ magnet that Kai had given him. Instead it’d been replaced by a neutral white dot keeping the picture to the fridge door.

It’d been a photo of him and Simmons back in Blood Gulch, hair still short from the Basic Training haircut.

But the photograph that Grif is staring at right now only contains strangers. He doesn’t recognize the chubby man with a bright grin and a shiny new uniform, or the blond teammate with his arm around his shoulders.

“What the fuck?” he says because he starts to see it now – the _not quite_ that can describe the entire room. The interior is the same, furniture placed in identical places, but whenever he looks for the details, they don’t match up. Not the right comic issues, the mess is missing, strangers can be found in every photograph.

And then, of course, there’s the pull around his neck when he tries to leave the bed. His fingers fly up to touch the spot, flinching when he can feel the leather going all around his throat. A fucking collar with a chain connecting it to the wall.

“ _What the fuck_?” he asks again, more desperate as he pulls at the metal to no avail. A small padlock kept the collar fastened, and even as he pressed his palm against the wall, the chain doesn’t budge.

The hopeful part of his brain thinks that maybe this is some sort of very mean of prank, that Sarge is taking some extra steps to make his life a hell, but he knows that the Sergeant isn’t that messed up.

Grif can’t quite remember what happened. His brain is filled with fog, like after a long nap. It’d be such a lovely surprise if it’s all just a dream.

But he pinches his wrist to be sure, and when he opens his eyes from the pain, he is still sitting in a strange bed in an unknown location. The clean smell tickles his noise and makes him feel ill. When he gulps, the collar digs deeper into his skin.

The panic only worsens when he wonders if Simmons is captured too, stuck somewhere in another room with clean sheets, just like he wants it.

The thought is like a second grip around his throat, squeezing, cutting off the air until he is doubled over, fingernails cracked from tearing at the metal, eyes wide open and bloodshot.

He remembers the silence on Iris, thick and smothering, but this is worse. He can hear his heartbeat echo inside his skulls, veins pulsating, limbs shaking.

He sits there, wide-eyes and panting, fingers still closed around his chain, until Temple enters the room.

He does this quietly in a casual stroll, out of armor and with a smile on his face. Temple leans against the kitchen counter and waves. “Hi Grif.”

The unopened can of soda misses his head by an inch, smashing against the shelf.

“Welp,” Temple said dryly, smashing his hands together. “I hadn’t exactly expected a warm welcome, but don’t you think this is a bit over the top? A wasted treat? It’s my fault, of course, and I’m so sorry for that. I should have left it out of reach until I’ve had the time to explain myself.”

“It seems like you have something to explain,” Grif practically growls as he tugs at his collar again.

For a split second Temple’s smile falters. “Well, I guess a catch-up is in order. So… What have you been doing the last two years?”

“Destroyed the timeline and restored it again and pissed off some not-really gods in the process. You know. The usual.”

“Ah, yes. I can’t really recall that happening, but, well, it won’t be the first time you’ve lost your mind, heh.”

Grif clenches his fists, fingers digging into the sheet.

“But I know things have been calm here on Chorus the last half a year. Nice apartment, by the way.”

It creeps under his skin to know that Temple has been watching him. At least, that’s what he presumes has happened with how smug Temple’s face is. A few memories are simmering in the back of his mind now – how his vision had tilted and he’d reached for his communicator just before the attacked happened…

“Are the others here?” he asks, lowering his glare to wipe some blood off his fingernails.

“Your Sim Troopers or mine?” He laughs bitterly, wiping his finger through some of the soda spill that Grif’s attack has left behind. When Grif doesn’t join in on the laughter, he rolls his eyes before sighing. ”Relax, they’re fine. You’re the only one I need for this.”

“This being your weird idea of a torture basement?”

 “Well, you’re right about the basement part!”

It’s not Temple’s hollow laugh that makes his skin crawl, but more the fact that it’s so predicable – Temple does strike him like the type creepy enough to lock up people in his basement. He’s not as bloodthirsty as Felix, not directly, but Temple’s mind is just as twisted if not more unreliable, and that gives Temple an edge that Grif does not look forward to facing.

There’s a surprising element, of course. Last he heard, Temple had been stuck in jail with the rest of his team.

“Where are we?”

“Chorus,” Temple says with a shrug, as if it’s obvious. “In _my_ apartment. A cheap little thing, easy to buy. Nice basement too!”

“God, you’re such a-“

Grif cuts himself off when he leans forward an inch too much and ends up being yanked back by the collar. He curses and adjusts the chain so he won’t feel its cold touch through the thin shirt. His stomach protests again when he wonders if he’d been wearing this shirt when he was ambushed. He can’t remember but he has his fingers crossed.

“Did you think about me? While I was in prison, I mean.”

“Did you get the collar idea from there?” Grif asks dryly. Truthfully, Temple hasn’t really been on his mind since he saw him and his team being rounded together for the prisoner transport.

“No, they’re not that strict. They even let me out on parole! For good behavior! Can you believe that?! But it was so easy, pushing the blame on Surge. He always wanted the leader title after all. Me? Oh, I was just a good soldier, fearing for my life! Yessir! Of course, sir! Whatever you want, _sir_!” The mocking tone makes his eyes cold as he spits out every word. “But they don’t know where I am. All I needed was my chance to disappear and they gave it to me.”

“And just why couldn’t you spend that freedom living the rest of your life on a secluded island?” Grif mutters sourly. It’s what he would have done. When they’d finally finished their latest adventure, they’d tried to settle down again.

Maybe it had worked this time. At least, so it’d felt when they all got their own apartment. Some of them had even begun to work – Simmons had been doing some computer stuff in Kimball’s office. Something about data and statistics.

Grif hadn’t really cared, about anything, and so he’d avoided work like a plague. He deserves the rest. So he’d stayed inside his apartment, trying to get used to this oddly quiet life.

With emphasis on _quiet_. He hadn’t really heard much from Simmons. Probably his own fault, being holed up for too long time.

He can’t even remember the last time he’d seen Kai. She’s been so busy, with that music festival on Chorus and now…

Now he wonders if he’s going to see her again.

“The USCN doesn’t like admitting their mistakes,” Temple continues. “So you probably haven’t heard of my little disappearance! Worked well for me!”

“Yeah, you still haven’t explained your BDSM kink.”

“Please. I didn’t bring any whips.” He smiles but it’s not enough to make the joke funny. So he spread out his arms to gesture to the room they’re in – the room Grif is trapped in – and says, “I made this. For you. A gift for _you_.”

Like a dollhouse, Grif thinks and tastes something bitter on his tongue. “Why?” he asks.

“That or death. I just went with the feeling that this would be the preferred choice. I mean – the other option is _pretty_ grim. This is… This is supposed to make you feel comfortable.”

Grif doesn’t say a word as he reaches up to tap his finger against the collar.

“Okay, alright, you got me there! I have may installed a few limitations but it’s for your own good. It’s… I tried my best.”

“I have some ideas for improvements.”

“I don’t doubt that.” With a sigh, Temple runs hand through his hair and for a split second his posture seems to collapse. Grif has never seen his face before, but he’s pretty sure Temple wasn’t this exhausted when they’d fought him on Earth. “Look, Agent Carolina killed my- an orange soldier. We never got even. I’m not a fan of loose ends. So… An eye for a tooth. She took something from me, I have to take something from her. It’s symbolic in that way. I guess.”

Grif knows the story. Parts of it, at least. Dylan had bothered to actually tell them what Temple’s motivations were. He gets it. Somewhat. The anger, the grief.

That’s relatable.

But the desire to fight an entire planet…

Well, Grif had refused to leave the comfort of the moon, despite the grief from losing Church.

“So why not just put a bullet in my head?” he asks. The more Temple speaks, the smaller the room becomes, and Grif is doing his best to keep his expression unchanging. “Seems like the lazy option. I’m usually a fan of those.”

Temple nods with a thoughtful hum. “I _could_ do that. I can’t say it won’t satisfy me. But… Prison was _so_ boring. It’s been _nice_ , having a little project to keep my hands busy.” He freezes to place a palm on the counter. “On the plus side, you get to live. _And_ it’s not like you are innocent in the grief you’ve all caused me. So this gives us the opportunity for us both to learn something.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna drop out of this class.” The chain rattles when Grif moves back, crawling across the bed until his back is pressed against the wall in a defensive corner.

“But it’s perfect! To them – you’re dead! Revenge done! And me – well, I’m gone. Sure, they might suspect me, but, well, they won’t find me! That’s the beauty of armor – you can take it off. Wear something else. Mark Temple, you say? That’s the dude in the cobalt armor! Well, not any longer.”

Temple pulls out one of the two kitchen chairs – the one where Simmons used to sit, in the beginning when he’d visited him, Grif notes dryly – and places his hands in his lap as he stares at Grif. “I have a new armor now. And a new name! I even think I’m making some new friends! Chorus really is a wonderful place, huh.”

Grif doesn’t want to think about how long Temple has been living with them, walked past them, maybe even greeted them in his disguise.  He’s been inside Grif’s room, that’s for sure, and the lack of privacy is made worse with the way Temple’s eyes gleam.

“And you don’t see any way your plan could fail?” Grif asks him. “At all?”

“Carolina didn’t recognize my voice before,” Temple says with a shrug. “I don’t see why she should now. I’m not so important, after all.” The smile grows wider again when he clasps his hands together. “Well, I suppose the first step is to get comfortable. I brought dinner.”

When he turns to leave the room, Grif hear the familiar beeps of someone entering a pin code before the door slides open.

Temple isn’t gone for long, and the thought of food makes Grif scoot closer to the edge of his bed. His head is still aching, but the sickly feeling has left his stomach. A small relief in this mess.

When Temple returns, he places a tray on the table, eyes shining when he notices Gif’s attention on him. “Cheeseburgers,” he announces happily. “I know it’s one of your favorites.”

“Of course you do.”

Temple goes to push a button on the wall near the bed, and Grif can hear a small whirring noise as the chain is being expanded. When the other soldier gestures for him to join him at the table, Grif understand that he is just being allowed to sit down on closest chair.

Even Temple is out of his reach, despite only being an arm’s length away, sitting across of him.

But Grif isn’t looking at him. Instead he stares at the two cheese burgers in front of him. His fingers are ready to reach for them, which is the only way he can eat it – Temple hasn’t trusted him with any forks or knives. Not that it bothers him – Simmons is the only guy he knows that eats burgers with cutlery.

“You can throw it at me, of course,” Temple says, nodding towards the meal. “But won’t that be a waste of good food? I bought fries too.”

Grif eats messily, having a small hope that the stains on the table will cause Temple some annoyance. It’s a small rebellion, but it’s all he can do for now.

When he’s swallowed his last bite, he looks up to ask him: “So how long do you plan for this to last?”

“Well, heh.” Temple’s sheepish grin only makes his anger bigger. “Death is forever,” he says with a light shrug, but he frowns at Grif’s following expression. “Look, I am not without kindness. So I’ll even throw in a treat as dessert – if we get through dinner without a fuss, I’ll give you access to the radio. Something to entertain you with.”

Grif doesn’t like being desperate. That means relying on people. He can deal with  rewards, he likes those, and he knows how to get what he wants. A little humiliation – he can deal with that. It’s been a part of his life since forever. That means he can play along, that he can deal with patronizing.

But this is something else. He’s got something to lose because he _needs_ the radio – he must get it and Temple knows it. Maybe Temple spent his time planning, standing outside Grif’s door, listening to the music being played all night, scribbling down his favorites to make a list.

The thought of the absolute silence in the dark – it makes his stomach twist again, it makes him want to gag.

But his stomach is as sturdy as always, and he eats his burgers and licks the salt off his fingertips.

At least Temple is kind enough to stay quiet, making it easier to get through the rest of the meal. He gives Grif a water bottle to drink from. One made out of plastic, probably in case Grif tries to throw something at him again.

After putting the plates in the sink, Temple adjusts the chain length again, giving him enough freedom to reach the bathroom installed in the corner of the apartment. Grif glares at him until he looks away.

Once he has shuffled his way back to his bed and the chain has been shortened for the night, Temple throws the remote at him.

It bounces against the mattress before Grif’s hands snatches it. He presses the remote, trying to change channels, but Temple has blocked all but one, with no commercials or news.

Grif wishes he could hear what was going on outside the cellar, but the music will have to be enough, and he ignores Temple’s “Goodnight” to cover himself with blankets and listen to the white noise.

When he really tries to, he can almost pretend that it’s his own bed back home.

But it never lasts long.

* * *

“Good morning.”

Normally, Grif’s morning routine has two hours set aside to wake up. He isn’t going to change that now. He keeps his eyes half-closed until Temple warns him it’s the last chance for a bathroom break.

He might be stubborn, but he isn’t stupid enough to take the risk.

When he is back in bed, a tray has been placed on the mattress. A bowl with Cheerios. Strawberry flavor. Another favorite.

“I hope you like it,” Temple says, a bit rushed. He is already halfway out of the room when he waves his hand. “Have fun.”

Grif doesn’t want to ask – he’ll rather not give Temple more attention than necessary. But Temple has gone all the way to bring him here – and now he is just leaving him alone? “Where are you going?” he asks from his pillow.

“It’s Monday!” Temple says like it is a matter of course. “I have work to take care of. This place doesn’t pay itself. I’ll see you in the evening. Any wishes for dinner?”

“Donut makes a good lasagna,” Grif says dryly. “You could ask him for the recipe.”

“You want me to invite him over for dinner? Maybe Simmons too?” Seeing Grif’s expression falter makes Temple forget his hurry and take his time to look at Grif as he says: “You know, I actually walk by your sister’s work place. I’ll be sure to wish her a good morning.”

The collar has left bruises on the throat when the door closes behind Temple.

He tears at the metal again later, knowing it won’t budge, but the attempt counts enough for him to give up afterwards. The strawberry taste is comforting as he eats his breakfast, and he turns up the radio to the highest volume in the weak hope that it might be heard on the surface.

Temple brings him sandwiches for dinner. The logo on the bag reveals that they’re from _Feed the Fed_ – one of the small shops that had opened in the rebuilding phases. Grif has bought dinner from there before, it’s placed just down the street from his apartment.

He wonders if anyone has noticed he’s gone yet.

“I hope you like it.”

Grif doesn’t say anything.

“It doesn’t have to be as bad as you think,” Temple soft voice tells him, as if he pities him.

Grif doesn’t reply to that either.

* * *

The next morning he causes Temple to arrive too late for work by refusing to get out of the shower.

Normally, he’d stray away from the water for as long as possible, but now he actually enjoys the burning feeling of hot water, scalding his skin until its red and sore and clean.

A cursing Temple retracts the chain to pull him out, causing him to slip and hit the tiled floor.

* * *

“I am trusting you not to attack me with a spoon.”

Grif bites back an insult by filling his mouth with steaming soup instead.

* * *

The plan to piss Temple off by giving him the cold shoulder misfires. It’s not tragic or anything. Instead, he is rewarded with a reward.

“Here,” Temple says and hands him a remote to turn on TV screen. “So you don’t get bored while I’m out.”

There are no channels – no news or reality shows to remind him of the city above him. But there are plenty of movies and series for him to waste his time on as he waits for a change in his trapped situation.

He spends the rest of the day doing a _Star Wars_ marathon, wondering what Simmons is doing.

* * *

Temple doesn’t bring up the others. Maybe it’s some sort of kindness to make it easier for Grif to forget. As if it removes the constant headache, the itching of his skin, the growing claustrophobia.

But one day – Grif has lost track now, he’s tried to count but then it all began to blend together – right before Temple leaves for work, he frowns and looks at Grif with big eyes. “I was wondering… Back when I… Back when this all began, you tried to call somebody. Just who were you going to ask for help? Asking out of curiosity.”

“Fuck you,” Grif says and flips him off.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, but he knows it’s been too long without a rescue.

Temple’s question haunts him the rest of the day – Simmons. He would have called Simmons, right? – and makes him pace back and forth the inches of floor he’s allowed to reach.

He wants to sleep. He wants nothing more than to close his eyes and wake up when the shit is done and Temple is lying beaten up on the floor.

But it doesn’t seem like that will happen any time soon, if at all.

When Temple returns, he finds the broken remote, all dented from when Grif smashed it against the base of the chain, over and over with no result.

Temple doesn’t comment on it, and Grif refuses to look at him.

The punishment first comes the next morning when Temple turns off the electricity when he leaves, leaving Grif behind in darkness and silence.

* * *

Six days later he gives in and leaves the switch on as he leaves to put on his new armor and join the busy life on Chorus once more.

It’s the constant muttering that has bothered him the most. How Grif had filled out the silence himself, singing and humming and talking to himself like a madman.

Which he is.

They both are.

But at least Temple carries his insanity with elegance, he makes it productive. When he returns home for dinner, he goes to check in Grif first, curious to see if the television has helped.

Grif is in his usual spot, tucked away in the corner beneath a shelf with his blanket pulled up, eyes glued to the screen. He isn’t rocking himself any longer, but when listening closely, Temple can hear the low muttering through the noise from the screen.

Grif’s eyes – only partly brown, not quite right – moves to watch him warily. When Temple’s hand is put on his arm, his expression cracks, revealing the touch starvation Temple has observed building up until now.

Then he scoots away, hissing for Tempe to fuck off.

It’s happened so many times before, it’s stopped hurting.

* * *

He sees Temple sit down on the mattress from the corner of his eye, slowly scooting closer, but he doesn’t react. A movie is being played as always, and Grif keeps his eyes on the screen.

“Can I join in?” Temple doesn’t wait for a reply as he slowly intrudes on his privacy sphere. Grif keeps a strong hold on his blanket, just in case Temple thinks they can share.

Temple leans against the wall to get comfortable, and he watches the movie with him for a minute before he can’t hold back a comment. “I’ve personally always been more of _Star Trek_ fan.”

Grif huffs and listens to the dialogue. He knows the lines by memory by now. Just like the songs.

“But, I mean, this isn’t bad,” Temple says when he opens his mouth again. “I brought chips-“

A second later he scrambles off the edge of bed, back into safety, as Grif lunges for him. The pale man is just out of reach, staring up at him with widened eyes when Grif is stopped by the chain like a rabid dog.

Grif isn’t even sure if Temple has a key. He’s never seen it. The collar hasn’t been off since the day he woke up in here.

Maybe Temple has just flushed it in the toilet.

But it was worth a try.

He leans back so that the collar is no longer choking him, crawling back to his corner and grabbing the bag of chips on his way. The only good thing is about this place is the food.

(And the peace, his brain reminds him, the lack of missions and stupid adventures. Just like he’d wanted it.)

Wordlessly, Temple pushes himself off the floor. He brushes dust off his knees before going to the bookcase, pulling down the framed picture of two friends.

He stares at it longingly. “You know, this one is from our Senior Year-“

“I don’t give a fuck,” Grif hisses.

It’s not him in the picture. It’s not Simmons either. It’s two friends, a long time ago, and it doesn’t have anything to do with him.

“You probably don’t,” Temple finally says, a bitterness dripping from his tongue. He sighs. “Such a fucking shame.”

After one final glance, the picture is thrown against the wall to shatter.

* * *

“I got us poke for tonight. I figured it would bring back some memories. Unless you lived of fast food on Hawaii.”

Grif looks at the bits of tuna and seaweed and thinks back to a beach a long time ago, before this mess, before Chorus, before the Military, where the sun would set slowly and a little girl would run alongside the waves. “Does Kai think I’m dead?” he asks, poking at his food.

“It’s the most popular theory.”

“Have you talked to her?” he growls, staring at the dish he grew up with.

“I keep my distance,” Temple says briefly, harshly. “Now, let us shut up and enjoy the food-“

“Just- Leave them alone.” Grif fills his mouth after that, trying not to let the familiarity of the taste overcome him. It reminds him of home, and a part of him wants to smile, but his face feels numb.

Temple glares at him through the dinner, never touching his own bowl. “Would you stop the fucking scowling?” he finally snaps, eyes narrowing. “Do you how much I _hate_ fish? I chose this for _you_.”

“Gee, thanks. I feel so much better now, almost like I’m not being kept here against my will!”

“I haven’t harmed you!” Temple stands up so suddenly that the legs of the chair scrape against the floor. “I could but I haven’t! I haven’t speared you with a fucking flagpole, _I haven’t left you to bleed to death_!” Panting he glares down at her, waiting for Grif’s expression to change. “If you want to blame someone, blame your _friend_ Carolina! _She_ is the reason why this needs to happen. I’m just trying to make it fair.”

“Bullshit!”

Temple doesn’t let him say more. Wordlessly, he marches to the controls and watches Grif being pulled out of his seat, into the bed, as the chain grows smaller.

Once he’s alone in the room, with the locked door muting the sound of Temple’s footsteps, Grif slams a shaking fist into the mattress.

 “This isn’t fair.”

* * *

There’s a routine by now.

It’s something built into his mind after an eternity down here.

Most days he can fool himself into thinking that it’s his bed. It has become his bed now. And the room, if he squints, is basically the same.

He can pretend. It makes the waiting easier.

Wrapping himself up as a blanket burrito, watching movies, spending his day doing nothing-

That was how he’d lived his life. How he’d wanted to live his life.

This is supposed to be easy.

His eyes are closed, listening to the sounds from the screen – Darth Vader’s theme has just started playing – and the bed is warm and nice. He can pretend, if just for a moment, that things are normal, that he is lying here on a lazy Sunday, waiting for nothing to happen.

It’s morning, and by now Kai would be dragging herself home from a too long party. Simmons would be up and about, unwilling to waste the early morning hours. Sarge would be working in his garage. The Blues would be… training? Probably? Arguing? Hopefully not dying?

And Grif is here. In bed.

Maybe they are still searching for him.

He rolls over, burying his face into a pillow. At least he has this. This whole attempt at normalcy. He could have been stuffed in a bare cell, being forced to spend the rest of his life there.

This is better.

It’s what he wants. So he can’t complain. Right?

Grif curls in on himself, ignoring the pressure on his Adam’s apple, and instead focuses on the warm touch of the blanket. It must be Sunday, he realizes. When Temple has to leave for work, he always wakes up Grif first with his cheerful “Good morning!” and leaves the tray on his bed for when Grif truly bothers to open his eyes.

It’s such a routine by now, he usually wakes before the door opens. He always knows what will happen next. The heavy footsteps, then the voice-

But it doesn’t happen today. Grif waits and burrows himself deeper into the mattress.

Temple usually lets him sleep in on weekends, but this-

He has never let him sleep for so long before.

The movie ends, and is quickly replaced by the sequel. Grif stares at it with distant eyes, heart beating faster because Temple should be here now, giving him breakfast, asking to join him on the bed, watching the movie with him, trying to put a hand on his shoulder.

But Temple isn’t here.

Grif can hear his own heartbeat fasten at the realization. That ‘What If’ he barely dares to ask.

What if Temple isn’t coming?

What if he’s finally been caught?

That doesn’t mean rescue by all means. They might not have found him yet. Maybe Temple is lying too well, saying he’s killed him. But maybe the others won’t stop their interrogation, maybe they will check his address.

Maybe they will find Grif and loosen the collar, and Grif can go home to his real apartment. Maybe it’s been sold, and maybe they’ve held a funeral for him, but it’s alright. Maybe he’ll stay at Simmons’ place, and maybe he can get to share room with him again, and maybe while Simmons prepares breakfast Grif can stare out of the window in the kitchen and see real sunlight again.

Maybe Kai’s festival is already over, but she’ll arrange new ones, and maybe Grif can get to attend those.

Maybe Temple is already dead and maybe Grif just has to count down minutes now before the door will slide open and-

“Happy birthday, Grif!” Temple says, grin bright and cold, with a fistful of confetti and a cake with a single lit candle.

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE AWESOME STICKYNOTEDOODLER! I hope you are having an awesome day! You wished for some dark Grif and Temple kidnapping/whump, and I hope this could satisfy! Thank you for being an awesome friend!
> 
> And don't worry, guys - I'll take a little break from the angst for now. Next thing to update will be Gri(e)f Lingers, so look forward to that!
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> As always: English isn't my native language so I apologize for any mistakes, and you can find me as riathedreamer on tumblr.


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